Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul. Various

bravado or passion or pride.

      Was it harder for him?

      But to live—every day to live out

      All the truth that he dreamt,

      While his friends met his conduct with doubt

      And the world with contempt.

      Was it thus that he plodded ahead,

      Never turning aside?

      Then we'll talk of the life that he lived.

      Never mind how he died.

      —Ernest Crosby.

      ———

      THE RED PLANET MARS

      The star of the unconquered will,

      He rises in my breast,

      Serene, and resolute, and still,

      And calm, and self-possessed.

      And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,

      That readest this brief psalm,

      As one by one thy hopes depart,

      Be resolute and calm.

      Oh, fear not in a world like this,

      And thou shalt know erelong—

      Know how sublime a thing it is

      To suffer and be strong.

      —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

      ———

      THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS PRAISE THEE

      Not they alone who from the bitter strife

      Came forth victorious, yielding willingly

      That which they deem most precious, even life,

      Content to suffer all things, Christ, for Thee;

      Not they alone whose feet so firmly trod

      The pathway ending in rack, sword and flame,

      Foreseeing death, yet faithful to their Lord,

      Enduring for His sake the pain and shame;

      Not they alone have won the martyr's palm,

      Not only from their life proceeds the eternal psalm.

      For earth hath martyrs now, a saintly throng;

      Each day unnoticed do we pass them by;

      'Mid busy crowds they calmly move along,

      Bearing a hidden cross, how patiently!

      Not theirs the sudden anguish, swift and keen,

      Their hearts are worn and wasted with small cares,

      With daily griefs and thrusts from foes unseen;

      Troubles and trials that take them unawares;

      Theirs is a lingering, silent martyrdom;

      They weep through weary years, and long for rest to come.

      They weep, but murmur not; it is God's will,

      And they have learned to bend their own to his;

      Simply enduring, knowing that each ill

      Is but the herald of some future bliss;

      Striving and suffering, yet so silently

      They know it least who seem to know them best.

      Faithful and true through long adversity

      They work and wait until God gives them rest;

      These surely share with those of bygone days

      The palm-branch and the crown, and swell their song of praise.

      ———

      THE HAPPY WARRIOR

      'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high,

      Conspicuous object in a nation's eye,

      Or left unthought of in obscurity,

      Who, with a toward or untoward lot,

      Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not—

      Plays, in the many games of life, that one

      Where what he most doth value must be won;

      Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,

      Nor thought of tender happiness betray;

      Who, not content that former work stand fast,

      Looks forward, persevering to the last,

      From well to better, daily self-surpast;

      Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth

      Forever, and to noble deeds give birth,

      Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,

      And leave a dead, unprofitable name—

      Finds comfort in himself and in his cause,

      And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws

      His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:

      This is the happy warrior; this is he

      That every man in arms should wish to be.

      —William Wordsworth.

      ———

      Aground the man who seeks a noble end

      Not angels but divinities attend.

      —Ralph Waldo Emerson.

      ———

      ROBERT BROWNING'S MESSAGE

      Grow old along with me!

      The best is yet to be,

      The last of life, for which the first was made;

      Our times are in His hand

      Who saith, "A whole I planned,

      Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

      Poor vaunt of life indeed,

      Were man but formed to feed

      On joy, to solely seek and find and feast;

      Such feasting ended, then

      As sure an end to men:

      Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

      Then welcome each rebuff

      That turns earth's smoothness rough,

      Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go!

      Be our joys three parts pain!

      Strive, and hold cheap the strain;

      Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

      For thence—a paradox

      Which comforts while it mocks—

      Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:

      What I aspired to be,

      And was not, comforts me:

      A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

      * * * * * * *

      Not on the vulgar mass

      Called